Joe stared at me but I couldn't see his eyes. They were squeezed between a squint and full closure. The gaze of a man shutting out as much of the world as possible.

"What does that mean?" he said.

I help out once a week... Talk to people.

A terrible answer but what more could I say? That I am being present? That I am working out some strain of guilty privilege? That I am trying to tilt the universe in a more benign direction?

A lunch for the price of a meditation. A fresh-baked roll. Salad with some greens from the Peace House garden. Lentils. Brats with StoveTop Stuffing that fooled me because it was so tasty. I cleaned my plate.

Joe didn't say anything. He did not want a conversation. He was looking for someone in charge, someone who could authorize him to get something to eat, although he had arrived too late for the free lunch.

In the middle of the five hours Peace House Community is open each weekday, we lock the doors and conduct a group discussion called a meditation. A meal is served to those who attend the meditation. Afterwards, the doors are opened to those who choose not to participate and trickle in later.

Usually, the subject for the meditation is introduced by a volunteer. Last week I led one based on the stories we tell about ourselves, the stories we make up about others, and whether it's permissible to share stories that might not be ours to tell. Some meditations may have a more spiritual or inspirational tone. Current events are a recurrent topic.

This Friday, I was sure the volunteers were prepared to talk about the terrible week of graphic shootings that began in Baton Rouge, followed by the deaths of Philando Castile and the Dallas police officers. But when one of us expressed her concern, there was a quick reaction against discussing it.

"We'll talk about this among ourselves," said Calvin, "but there's enough negativity when you're homeless. Let's have the meditation be something positive."

Mel, a burly employee who functions as something of a sergeant at arms, then led a game that was a cross between an AA meeting and "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," in which people were encouraged to tell three things about themselves, one of which could be lie. The rest of us were to pick out truth from falsehood.

The tales ranged from positive moments (a year of medical school, appearing as a schoolboy on the front page of a newspaper) to humorous declarations (I'm not a lesbian but I like to hit on women) to police chases, claims of drug convictions and prison stints, and surviving a hammer attack.

Mel said his game was pointless, but it posed a reminder of the resilience in the room without going all heavy. There are lessons to be found at Peace House without some volunteer circling them with a Sharpie.

***

With the help of a Native woman who's a regular, Joe got some food from the kitchen—a sandwich and a frozen pasta dinner for later. He left the packaged food on a table and went outside, where he managed to get the sandwich stolen before he could eat it.

When Joe returned, I was sitting on the porch. Once again looking for something to eat, he denied he'd been given any other food. Maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe I was mistaken. I went inside to sort things out.

I came back out to tell him the pasta was still there and it was his. I didn't expect my little intercession to be met with cold fury.

"Don't ever go in there and talk for me, understand?"

I think I do.

Here I was, dragging in my politics, my sincerity, maybe my need to expiate. Trying too hard to be the good guy.

Joe doesn't want a savior, he wants something to eat, and he felt capable of sorting it out himself. Of course, he is. He knows more about finding food in this town than I ever will.

Mel doesn't want a heavy discussion, he wants to give people in the room a chance to say, I've been through hell, I've made stupid mistakes and kicked away chances, but here I am.

None of them came to hear comfortable old white people say how much we care, even if this week we badly need to hear ourselves say it.

This post first appeared as "Mental illness, easy gun access can be a toxic combination" in the Grand Junction Daily Sentinel.

I still remember that windy, solitary run west of town early one April morning in 1984.

Folded newspapers waited to be collected from driveways. Depending on
how they landed, my father’s face looked back at me, mile after mile.

It’s with me still.

As the local economy sank and businesses failed, 1984 was hard for
everyone, but an especially lousy time to be a banker like my father,
who had risen from poor circumstances to prominence.

Unlike those of a Wall Street stripe, he knew his clients by name and
bore a great deal of empathy for their financial hardships. At the same
time, he was under pressure to ensure that the bank remained sound.

I can only speculate about the cause of what happened next — whether
hidden fault lines in his makeup collapsed under the pressure — but
something in him broke.

He was a leader in the bank and the community, and he was supposed to
be strong. He sought help, but he was also reluctant to let his illness
be known. His sense of failed responsibility to other people only
compounded his distress.

Far away in Minnesota, I was told there was nothing I could do here
to help, that he was not himself and I should wait to visit until he was
better. We all thought he was going to get better.

And then we got the call to come home.

One morning my father awoke, started his morning routine, waited for
my mother to get into the shower, and then he went downstairs to the
family room with a gun.

We’ll never know if he’d planned his death all along or if it was an
impulse. A reaction to his medications. A final loss of hope. Or, the
most chilling thought of all, that he feared harming someone in his
family when reality and nightmares crossed over into each other.

Almost 30 years later, we’ve each made our separate peace with not knowing.

In 2012, Mesa County surpassed a grim record for suicides: We’re
among the top counties in one of the top states. There are a lot of
possible explanations for why the Mountain West has the highest rates of
suicide — broad gun ownership, communities without good access to
mental health services, a rural landscape and individualistic culture
that stresses self-reliance and increases isolation. There’s even a
theory about high altitude’s effect on the brains of people with
depression.

I only know this for sure: Each suicide is its own sad story, leaving
a mysterious incompleteness, a private pain. Each death creates a
slipstream of questions about what cues survivors missed and what we
might have done differently.

The answers can’t save a lost loved one, colleague or friend, but
they can help illuminate the dual denial that makes guns and mental
illness such a lethal combination.

Lately, the nation has been obsessed with the Sandy Hook Elementary
school killings. Opinions are split on whether the tragedy points out
the need for more gun control, better mental health access, a national
registry of persons with mental illness or even more guns in the hands
of citizens.

All seem to agree the public needs protection from mass killers like Adam Lanza.

But is that the real problem? It’s possible that Lanza’s murderous
behavior was the byproduct of a suicidal decision and not the other way
around.

School shootings like Sandy Hook are sensational but extremely rare, amounting to around three-dozen deaths per year.

There were 8,583 murders with firearms in 2011. Less than one percent
of all homicides, or fewer than 120, involved more than two victims.

Contrast those numbers with the 19,766 Americans who reportedly took
their own lives using firearms in 2011 — more than half the total
suicide toll of 36,909.

I share these reflections because I want our community to take
seriously the threat that firearms pose for people who are in mental
distress.

It’s important to know that simply treating a mental condition may
not be enough to save a loved one. Denial is natural. Mental states
change. Easy access to a gun can make a temporary swing permanent.

At the same time, no current gun-sale law, licensing scheme or mental
health screening would have prevented my father from having the gun
that killed him. That heavy burden falls largely upon family, health
care providers and friends who are hoping for the best, not thinking the
unthinkable.

Some might say my father would’ve killed himself another way if there
weren’t a gun in the house. Perhaps, but no one knows. Another method
would have been more complicated, less lethal and less subject to a
transitory despair.

My appeal is simply this. We should be wary of passing laws that
afford an illusion of protection but fail to address the realities of
isolation, irrational thought and the ready availability of the most
lethal means of suicide.

Here I am posting on Christmas morning about the potential for Minnesota to lose one of its eight Congressional seats if our population falls short in the upcoming Census. State forecasts show us missing the mark by about 1,100 people – a difference of less than one month’s population change.

King Banaian notes this, along with a discussion we had in 2008 about how and why Minnesota's population growth is slowing. He suggests he might have a student investigate the question as a senior project.

I'd welcome that analysis.

That got me thinking, though. Why not some senior projects on ways Minnesota could avoid losing the seat?

We might have to take action sooner than a student could write a paper, so I'll offer some of my own solutions to legislators, too. I've tried to make suggestions that could appeal to either party:

Annex Hudson, Wisconsin. In addition to boosting the Minnesota population, it will relieve residents who commute to jobs in Minnesota from having to file two income tax returns, although those still working in Wisconsin would be out of luck

Offer a free building and infrastructure improvements, with no property or corporate income taxes payable until 2080, to any business that can relocate its workforce here by spring (wait, that's what other states already do)

Bring major league soccer to St. Paul and watch the economy blossom

Send Minnesota peacekeeping troops to Missouri, another state on the Congressional district cusp. Leaflet the state with anti-Census propaganda, and t0 be safe, have Rep. Michele Bachmann tour the Ozarks in person

Bob Collins at News Cut talks about yesterday's Give to the Max Day in Minnesota, which raised more than $12 million for local nonprofits yesterday. Commenters there and at this story weighed in with their confusion (and in some cases, disappointment) over the fact that $500,000 can't be a dollar-for-dollar match if there's more than $500,000 in contributions.

Duh.

The blame for this confusion is largely laid on the GiveMN organizers, but I fear it really reflects the weak state of financial acumen and development sophistication at too many non-profits.

I can't speak for the sponsoring foundations, but I think all the discussion about the match and whether the day attracted new money misses the larger point. I'd argue the day was about creating statewide awareness and increasing donor comfort with giving online.

Organizations and the members upset about their tiny match need to look at the bigger picture. GiveMN.org handed these organizations a new fundraising tool that otherwise might have been beyond their ability to implement. It spurred many of them to use the web in new ways to reach donors and considerably raised the profile of online giving.

For years, I've been using and recommending Network for Good — which appears to be affiliated with the "giving marketplace" that provides the GiveMN platform — as a way to manage one's charitable giving. For people who write just a few checks a year, a tool like this may be
more than you need, but as more transactions of all types move to the
web, non-profits must be able to move there, and use it effectively. This is tough to do on your own, especially in small, very resource-constrained organizations.

GiveMN also harnesses social media in ways that go beyond Network for Good, allowing donors to declare their support for organizations and share it with their personal networks — which is really how non-profits need to build their donor base.

I doubt that many organizations found new donors or raised much new money through Give to the Max Day. For most, I suspect that the annual appeal dollars and year-end giving from people figuring out their taxes might have just moved up in time.

But the dollars raised should not be the measure of success. Smart organizations will be using this day as a learning opportunity and this platform as a way to move their donor relations into a new realm.

UPDATE: A comment by Bruce at the News Cut post sheds some more light on how the confusion arose.

In their webinar presentation to charities some weeks ago, GiveMN.org
reps said the $500K they secured from local foundations and other
funding "partners" was to be allocated for underwriting the 4.75% fees
charged by their processing "partner" Networkforgood.org until the
money ran out. Then it was changed to a 1:1 match, then 1:2, then (and
finally) proportional. The move to proportional came too late to effect
the "buzz" of the 1:1 or 1:2 matches that were communicated prior to
Nov. 17th. As late as Tuesday afternoon non-profits that one would
think would know better were still representing "double your gift to
us" through blast e-mails.

And the Strib comes out with a "Charitable Giving Guide" supplement on November 18th, the day after GTM Day!

Samuel Johnson just turned 300 — assuming he is still turning in his grave.

Johnson's query, "How is it that we hear the loudest yelps for liberty
from among the drivers of negroes?" remains the most devastating
one-line challenge ever launched against the claims of the American
revolution and the American nation. It goes to the heart of all
Johnson's scepticism about American claims and pretensions.

What do pagans, witches, heathens, Mafia, unhinged cultists, Klingons, investment fraudsters, death metal bands and evangelical Congresswomen have in common?

If you are considering joining a group, grove, coven, or magical order,
which requires a blood oath, do not take this requirement lightly.
There is a reason why it is has the history that it does among criminal
brotherhoods, secret societies, martial ryu, and ancient religions.

R. Allen Stanford’s relationship with the chief regulator of his Antigua bank was closer than most.

At a meeting in 2003, they became blood brothers, cutting their wrists and mixing their blood
in a “brotherhood ceremony” that Mr. Stanford’s chief financial officer
said promoted an elaborate scheme to hide a multibillion-dollar fraud
from American and other regulators.

The group's greatest adversary, a man known as the Albino, has been located, and the foursome can now fulfill the blood oath they made decades ago to kill him. Dax is unsure of whether or not she can go through with the oath that Curzon made. Kang reminds her that as a Trill, she has no obligation to fulfill what her symbiont promised.

They were found lying neatly in their own bunk beds, with their faces
and torsos covered by a square, purple cloth. Each member carried a
five dollar bill and three quarters in their pockets. All 39 were
dressed in identical black shirts and sweat pants, brand new
black-and-white Nike Windrunner athletic shoes, and armband patches reading "Heaven's Gate Away Team."

Bachmann is on track with the fact that blood oaths have arisen as a way of fighting government power. But such pacts have a way of going too far. Sicilian resistance to outside rulers was what led to the Mafia, for example.

And cultism simply doesn't have a great record when it comes to making life better, plus it can be bad for property values. Hal points to the account of Heaven's Gate again:

While the press never knew it, the cult had sent a suicide letter to [the owner of the 9,000-square-foot mansion the cult rented]. The tone of the letter suggested that they were actually doing the owner a favor by creating a famous event that would make the house an invaluable shrine. In reality, after the house was cleared of the bodies and their belongings, significant physical damage remained, which amounted to well over $200,000. Looking for some kind of break, the home owner tried to appeal his property taxes, only to receive a letter in return from the San Diego Assessor's Office that rejected his appeal on the grounds that a mass suicide in his property did not qualify as a disaster. Eventually, he was forced to give the property back to the bank. The bank sold it at a deep discount to a nearby neighbor who promptly had the house bulldozed.

When I started volunteering with pre-schoolers, I didn't have a particular agenda. I like little kids, am concerned about the growing education divide in the country and wanted to do some service that would help those struggling at the bottom of the country's economic pileup.

Maybe somewhere deep down I envisioned imparting sage advice, but not too much of that since I'm too gray and white for my charges to see me as a role model.

But questions sages are asked are not necessarily the questions we are prepared to answer.

After his third (or was it fourth?) defeat in his appeal process, Minnesota Sen. Norm Coleman may have been "gracious" in finally conceding the election to new Sen. Al Franken. But Coleman is doling out the graciousness selectively.

I heard an MPR reporter say that cameras from The UpTake were excluded from livestreaming Coleman's announcement. Instead, the news service shot shaky video from a neighbor's yard and posted it here — a mute commentary on the snub.

The UpTake has provided the most in-depth video documentation of the various proceedings associated with the recount, but has been systematically stiffed by Coleman's staff. If Coleman does decide to run for office again, he's certainly not paving the way with citizen media.

Unions’ power to fix high prices for their members’ labor rests on
legal privileges and immunities that they get from government, both by
statute and by nonenforcement of other laws. The purpose of these legal
privileges is to restrict others from working for lower wages.— Morgan Reynolds, via King Banaian

Anyone who takes my lower wages away will have to pry them from my cold, dead fingers.

Then [1935] as now, there was an unresolved cultural question: Is
electricity a public good that's supposed to raise the quality of
everyone's lives, or is it a commodity to be distributed in a
free-market environment only to those who can afford it?

Private-sector utilities found it unprofitable to extend lines into
low-density rural areas, and municipal utilities were usually limited
-- thanks to private sector lobbying -- to their incorporated limits.
That was an answer of sorts to the cultural question. But in the depths
of the Great Depression, the Roosevelt administration came down
squarely on the side of electricity as a public good.